Nor Dark of Night
by Gretch Goodwin
Summary: Molly Nguen left home to find freedom, and being a courier sounded like simple enough work. After falling victim to a scheme she wanted nothing to do with, and finding herself trapped between two nations at war while running away from both, every day is a struggle to evade the shackles of those who'd use her. And, most importantly of all, there's still a package to deliver.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not claim ownership of any in-universe locations, characters, or concepts. Only the player character and any AU plot tangents are my creation; all else remains the property of its respective owners.

 **A/N:** An acceptable level of violence and coarse language awaits you. Openly queer characters await you, too, but I don't see as to how that should require a warning.

 **Nor Dark of Night**

 _1._

" _I wrote my new song on a five-dollar bill  
_ _But I won't be able to sing it until  
_ _I get hot on the trail for to pick up the track  
_ _Of the dirty little thief and get my five bucks back_

 _I first got the five dollars from a Montana man  
_ _When he come across the line with a pistol in his hand  
_ _He said, 'Gimme all your money!' but I got to his first  
_ _And I took his Colts too and the whole first verse  
_ _But he picked my back pocket, worked the five bucks loose  
_ _I had it tucked in behind a can of Copenhagen snoose_

 _I wrote my new song on a five-dollar bill  
_ _But I won't be able to sing it until  
_ _I get hot on the trail for to pick up the track  
_ _Of the dirty little thief and get my five bucks back"_

 _-Corb Lund_

After a good three days of her vitals stabilizing and her color returning, the girl on Doc Mitchell's bed began to stir. He smiled, laid a soft hand on her forehead, and asked, "Can you hear me, kid? How do you feel?"

Her eyes slowly opened, focused, and she opened her mouth, though no sound came out. Doc Mitchell stroked her forehead and said, "It's alright. Take your time. Take it easy."

She screamed. Doc Mitchell stepped back, and just in time as her hand shot to where his wrist had been a second before. After a few minutes' sustained screaming, she began to thrash wildly and yelled, "Fuck you, you bushwhacking, limp-dick son of a bitch!"

Doc Mitchell blinked.

"Do it! Go ahead and do it if you've got the balls! You won't! Bushwhacking, back-biting coward! You won't! You won't!"

More screaming, and the thrashing gave way to gasping and trembling. Doc threw a blanket over her and muttered, "Apparently he would."

She threw in a long, ragged breath and whispered, "Oh holy hell . . . What?"

Doc moved to the end of the bed, grabbed her heels, and lifted them. "You're in shock," he said. "Just breathe normal and try to relax. You're safe here."

"Where's here? And who are you? Crap, who am I?"

"My name's Doc Mitchell, and you're in Goodsprings. You been shot. Take it easy; you been out a couple days now. Do you remember anything at all? What's your name?"

"Molly . . . my name's Molly Nguen. Some guys bushwhacked me, and one of 'em friggin' shot me in the head, I guess. I remember now. Doc, how am I alive?"

"Viktor—the metal fella—he was passin' by the graveyard, pulled you out the ground, and brung you here. Things were touch and go at first—I kinda had to root around in yer noggin to get all the bits of lead out, hope you don't mind—but I think I got you fixed up. What else do you remember, Molly?"

"He was wearing a checkered suit. There were some guys with him. Heavies. I think he called them Khans."

"That's good. Keep going, keep remembering."

"It had something to do with my parcel. Turned out to be a chip. I got popped in the dome over a goddamn poker chip."

"You don't sound like you're from around here, Molly. Do you remember where you're from? And what was that about a parcel?"

"Parcel. Delivery. I remember that, too, now. I was—I am—a courier, Mojave Express. I'm not from around here, no, I'm from up north. Portland. I got no family now, so I headed east to get away. Eating gecko steak and sleeping with my head in the dirt got old after a while, so I found a town and asked about ways to earn some scratch. It . . . it hasn't ended so good so far."

"Do you remember what happened, Molly?"

"I remember being thumped on the back of the head. After that I remember looking up at Mr. Fancypants and him pulling out a gun. Then I woke up on your bed here. Say, Doc, where's my stuff? Where are my clothes?"

Doc pushed a box toward her. "This here is everything you had when Viktor brought you. It's yours again. I know how it feels to have something that's yours taken away."

Molly threw the blanket aside, seemingly oblivious to her own nakedness, and groped around in the box until she produced half of a pair of glasses, about which she observed, "Well, shit fire and save the matches."

Doc hobbled over to his nightstand, opened one of the drawers, and took out a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses. "Try these. They belong to my wife; she was four-eyed, too."

Molly put them on, judged them sufficient, and said, "Thanks, Doc. And thanks for all this. You really saved my ass."

"That's what I'm here for, kid. Don't even mention it."

She produced from the box a pair of blue jeans, a cotton t-shirt, underpants, boots, a cowboy hat, and a pair of dirty wool socks. After dressing and settling the hat over her head, she groped around in the box and said, "Hey, Doc, did that Viktor dude happen to bring any guns with him?"

"Afraid not."

She chose not to hear him. "There'd be a long arm and a sidearm, a hunting rifle and a nine. Rifle has a cracked stock wrapped in electrical tape, nine has a pearl handle. They were my dad's."

"No guns, Molly, I'm sorry. You could talk to Viktor, but I wouldn't put any caps on it."

"Dad's guns," she said flatly. Digging about in the box again, she commented, "Took Dad's guns . . . took all my caps . . . took my NCR scrip . . . holy Hell, they took change of underpants . . . Oh, thank goodness!"

She sprang up triumphant, holding a stiletto in one hand and a pip-boy in the other. "At least I've got Mom's stuff."

Doc Mitchell was standing as well. "Are you hungry, kid?"

"I could eat. If it's no trouble."

"Not at all."

He left, returned with a can of beans and a can opener. Molly held the two objects out in front of her and stared at them as if they were alien artifacts. "Doc, I, uh . . . I think we have a slight problem."

Doc, chuckling, took them from her, said, "That's perfectly normal. Sometimes our memories get mixed up when we take a few lumps, and you've just woke up from a coma after suffering a traumatic brain injury; if the worst side-effect is you disremember how to use a can opener, you're damn lucky. It goes like this."

He started opening the can, handed it back to her, and her hands recalled what her brain had lost. Son she was drinking the beans, indifferent to the sauce dribbling from her mouth, and between gulps asked, "Say, Doc, you got a mirror?"

"Sure do."

He took a hand mirror from the same drawer that had held the glasses and held it up from Molly to examine herself. She touched the cauterized scar on the side of her forehead, followed it to the stitched, hairless patch on the back of her head, winced, said, "Damn. I guess it went in oblique-like over here, and tore out some chunks before most of it went on its way."

"Exactly right. You know something about medicine, then?"

"This and that. You don't last long out in the wilderness if you don't learn a thing or two about a thing or two. I've purged my own guts, stitched up my own wounds, hell, one time I set my own busted leg."

"Is that so?"

"It was a long, weird road from Oregon to Nevada; a whole lot of it was touch and go. And to think it almost ended with me being bushwhacked by some guy in a fancy suit. Ain't life some crap?"

"Can I ask what would drive a young lady down that long, weird road?"

Molly stopped eating. Flatly, she asked, "You remember I said my folks are dead? Remember I said I came here to get away?"

"You did."

Her eyes narrowed into a hateful glare, and she growled, _"Fuck NCR."_

* * *

After eating, and chatting a bit longer, Molly asked, "So, Doc, what's in Goodsprings?"

"Not much; we're a pretty quiet little town. If you're itching to get back on the trail, you should head over to the Prospector Saloon and see if you can't catch Sunny Smiles. She usually helps out newcomers."

"Suppose I will, Doc. Thanks for the grub, and for taking me in, and thanks for saving my life. I owe you big."

"No, you don't. It were no trouble at all."

"No-can-do, Doc. If you ever need a favor, come find me and I'll take care of you. I've always been one for favors."

"Reckon I'll keep that in mind. So where will you go?"

"Someplace out there is a man in a checkered coat who could use killing. And he's got something that isn't his, and I've got a delivery to complete."


	2. Chapter 2

_II._

" _Fell in love with a country girl, morning sunshine  
_ _She was up from a nether world, just to burst another soul  
_ _Her eyes were an endless flame, unholy lady  
_ _Desire with a special name, made to snatch your soul away . . .  
_ _Don't ever fall in love, don't give your heart away  
_ _No, never fall in love with a country girl . . ."  
_ _-Black Sabbath_

The glaring Nevada sun almost floored Molly when she walked outside. When her head cleared and she had a look around, she saw that Goodsprings wasn't much of a town at all. The only buildings in any sort of repair were Doc Mitchell's house and two tin shacks down the hill that appeared to be a store and the Prospector Saloon; the rest of the town was made up of barely-standing pre-War buildings; the townsfolk moved about with an unworried ease if they didn't just plainly loaf. It seemed a place to which organization and ambition were wholly foreign concepts.

Molly decided there and then that she liked Goodsprings immensely.

She swaggered down the hill toward the saloon, relishing the sand under her boots and the warm, dry wind in her hair. The interior of the saloon was mercifully dark and cool, reeking of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and sweat; Molly found Goodsprings all the more endearing. She sat down at the bar and addressed the middle-aged woman standing behind it, saying, "Good morning, ma'am. I'm powerful thirsty, and I find myself a bit short on caps right now, but if you'd loan me a sarsaparilla I'll do you just about anything in return."

The woman smiled, pulled a bottle from behind the bar, and handed it over. "Don't even worry about it, dear; your first one is on the house. You must be the one Doc Mitchell was patching up. My name's Trudy."

"Nice to meet you, Trudy. My name's Molly, Molly Nguen."

"A pleasure. How do you like our little town?"

"I'm digging it. Seems a swell place to live. I might come back for a visit, once I've got my business sorted out."

"And what business is that, dear?"

"I had a package I was supposed to deliver; some guys bushwhacked me and took it. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

"Not precisely, no, but around the time that machine pulled you out of the ground a few strangers passed through the saloon. One of them was wearing a checkered suit, and one of those Great Khans he was with knocked my radio on the floor 'by mistake'; hasn't worked right since. I do miss hearing what's going on in the world, and that Mr. New Vegas sure does sound like a gentleman."

"Did you happen to catch their names?"

"Afraid not. Though the one in the checkered suit seemed like one of them slick New Vegas types, and they said something about heading back to the Strip. Sounded like they came in south through Quarry Junction, and I don't blame them one bit for wanting to avoid it; that whole stretch of I-15 is full of the kind of critters that just get mad if you shoot at 'em."

"Thank you. And thanks for the drink. I think I might have a look at that radio; I'm pretty good with my hands."

"It'd be worth a few caps to me."

"Forget it; just put it on my tab. Say, Doc Mitchell told me I ought to meet up with somebody named Sunny Smiles; would you know if she's about?"

"Sunny? She should be along any minute now."

Molly noticed that, when she spoke of Sunny, Trudy smiled and got a far-away look in her eyes. Deciding to take a chance, she cocked her cowboy hat at a jaunty angle and said, "So, this Sunny Smiles, does she . . . y'know?"

"Know what, dear?"

"Ah, nevermind."

The door behind them creaked open to the sound of booted footfalls and a dog barking. A pleasant, feminine voice said, "Cheyenne, stay! Don't worry; she won't bite, unless I tell her to."

Molly turned around to see a tiny, red-haired woman with a ranch rifle slung over her shoulder and a cur-dog at her heel. Molly stood up and said, "Howdy, you must be Sunny Smiles. My name's Molly, Molly Nguen."

"Yeah, you're the one Doc Mitchell was patching up. Welcome to Goodsprings."

Molly realized that she'd begun to grin like an idiot and shook herself, which prompted a quick smile from Sunny, which she noticed; she said, "Doc Mitchell mentioned something about you setting me up with some kit; I've still got all my tools, but the bushwhackers who shot me made off with my guns."

"No problem. Follow me out back of the saloon and we'll see where you're at."

Outside, the back wall of the Prospector Saloon was lined with sacks and crates of dirt for a bullet-bank, and in front of that was a fence stacked with empty bottles. Sunny handed Molly one of her varmint rifles and said, "Take a few shots at those bottles."

There was no repeat of the can opener incident. With practiced ease, Molly clicked off the rifle's safety, loaded a round into the chamber, put it to her shoulder, looked down the sights, and gently squeezed the trigger.

The round thumped into the bank two feet left of the bottle.

"Take it easy," Sunny said. "Try crouching down; it'll help your aim."

Molly waved off the suggestion derisively, unsheathed her knife, and fiddled with the rifle's sights a bit. She put it to her shoulder again, let off a round, and the bottle shattered with a satisfying noise. She raked right, smooth and easy, until there were no bottles left, and she looked toward Sunny with a self-satisfied smile.

"Looks like you've still got it," Sunny said, "but I bet you didn't come to me to see about fighting sarsaparilla bottles. I've got to go clear geckos away from the town's water source; little bastards are attracted to it for some reason. Why don't you come with me? It'd be worth a few caps."

Molly shrugged. "Ain't got shit else to do."

* * *

The source was a quick walk from town into the wastes. Sunny stopped at the head of a wash under a short cliff, gestured to where the trail turned into the rocks ahead, and said, "It's right up there a ways. I don't know how many geckos there are, but there should be a few; seems like Doc Mitchell treats more gecko bites than anything else; bunch of little monsters is what they are. From here you should be able to sneak up on them without any trouble."

Having assayed the area, Molly slung her rifle over her shoulder and picked her way up the wash to the top of the cliff while Sunny watched, shaking her head. The clifftop gave her a good view of the pumphouse and the four large lizards milling around it. She lined up her first shot, fired, and the first gecko went down; the rocks scattered the rifle's rapport and its fellows didn't notice until they turned around and saw its corpse, by which point a second gecko had been dispatched. By the time Sunny and Cheyenne had come up the trail, the source was clear and Molly was perched on the edge of the cliff, legs crossed, a self-satisfied grin on her face.

As they walked back to town, Molly asked, "So has the NCR started pushing into this area yet?"

"Here and there. They've been helping people out with food and medicine, and taking care of the raiders, but I don't care for them; I don't think towns like Goodsprings or Primm will stay independent for long."

"Word of advice: you want to stay independent as long as possible. Fuck NCR."

"They do help a lot of people."

"So do the Followers, and I don't remember the last time a Follower murdered anybody. NCR are fucking pigs."

"I reckon you're right, but they at least sound better than this other group we've been hearing about. They call themselves Caesar's Legion."

"Don't believe I've heard of them."

"I haven't heard much, myself. But the word is that they sell slaves and nail people up on telephone poles."

"Cripes. Honestly, though, doesn't sound much different than the NCR."

* * *

They walked into the Prospector Saloon to see Trudy standing in front of the bar, having a spirited conversation with a man in a combat vest. The stranger put his finger in Trudy's face and said, "If you don't turn him over, I'm gonna go get my friends and we're burning this town to the ground."

"That's nice," Trudy said, rolling her eyes. "Now, either buy something or get out."

The stranger stormed out. Molly examined her boots and thought to herself, _This is not your fight. You don't know these people, this is not your town, this is not your fight._ But when she looked up she caught Sunny's eyes, and for a moment Trudy looked strangely like her mother; she sighed and asked, "So who's the asshole?"

"That was Joe Cobb," Trudy told her. He's one of the Powder Gangers."

"Powder Gangers?"

"Chain gangs. NCR brought a bunch of convicts in to work on rebuilding the railroads south of here, but there was a riot, and it turns out giving convicts a bunch of gunpowder and dynamite ain't such a good idea."

Molly spat on the floor. "Sounds like NCR, yeah."

"A couple days back, a trader called Ringo came into town and said he'd been attacked and needed a place to hide, so we put him up in the old gas station. Joe Cobb came in right after him, and he's promising trouble if we don't hand Ringo over."

"So what are you going to do?"

She shrugged. "Most of the townsfolk will put up a fight if it comes to it, but not so much for Ringo, just on general principles. Personally, I hope Ringo leaves town and takes the Powder Gangers with him."

Molly looked toward Sunny, who said, "Even if Ringo leaves, I don't think the Powder Gangers are going anywhere. You should go talk to him; the gas station is right by Doc Mitchell's house.

Resolving to do just that, Molly walked out and headed up the hill to the abandoned station. She found the door unlocked, which was strange if the occupant was hiding from raiders. She decided that Ringo must be a bit on the slow side; her opinion was not improved when she saw a trader standing at the back of the room, pistol at the ready, and he said, "That's close enough. One more step and you're walking out of here with a hole in your head."

"Hello to you too," she replied. "You must be Ringo. Sunny Smiles told me I should talk to you. My name's Molly, Molly Nguen."

"Alright, yeah, I'm Ringo; sorry about the gun, there are some bad people after me and I'm a little nervous. What do you want?"

"What's your business with this Joe Cobb guy?"

"I'm a trader with the Crimson Caravan company. A few days ago my caravan got attacked by a bunch of raiders in prison guard outfits. We put up a good fight, but I was the only one who got away, and now their friends are after me."

Molly itched to give him her apologies and say it wasn't her fight, but when she closed her eyes she saw her mother's face, kind and helpful, admonishing her. Sighing again, she said, "I'd like to help."

"Really? We don't even know each other."

"I don't know why. My folks were in the business of helping people, and I guess I still haven't taught myself better. Do you want my help or not?"

"Of course I want your help, and if things work out I'll owe you bigtime. You should talk to Sunny Smiles; she's been friendlier towards me than most."

* * *

On the way back toward the saloon, Molly had the thought that she'd like to see cemetery and look over what should've been her grave. Heading up the hill she saw a robot with a friendly cowboy's face on its monitor rolling down the road toward her. It noticed her, waved, and its speakers drawled, "Howdy, pard'ner! Fancy meeting you here."

"You must be Victor," she said. "Thanks for saving my ass."

"Weren't no trouble," the robot said. "I was out for a stroll when I saw some commotion up at the old bone orchard. When the strangers were gone I went over to see if you were still kickin'; turned out you were, so I pulled you out of the ground and took you to see the Doc."

"Well, thanks for that; you saved my life."

"Like I said, no trouble at all. Happy trails!"

And the robot rolled away. Molly side-eyed him as he went; there was definitely something about Victor that she didn't like, though she couldn't put her finger on it.

There was only one open grave in the cemetery, and it was barely deep enough to hold a person; if she'd been dead, the coyotes and bloatflies would've been at her before she was cold. She felt a growing contempt for her attackers. Two 9mm shell casings lay on the ground; she scooped them up and pocketed them.

Not far away, she found a snowglobe lying on a pile of dirt. She picked it up and shoved into her backpack; for some reason, it struck her as important.

And on the way out of the cemetery, she noticed something that improved her mood immensely: a box of .308 rounds, and a hunting rifle, scoped, with a cracked stock wrapped in electrical tape.

* * *

She found Sunny sitting outside of the Prospector Saloon, and as she walked up Sunny waved her over and asked, "So did you talk to Ringo?"

Molly took a seat next to her. "Yeah. I've decided I'll give a hand."

"That's good. You'll have yourself a pretty good reputation around Goodpsrings at this rate."

She smiled and casually rested a hand on Sunny's knee; thought she didn't seem to notice, she edged a bit closer. Molly asked, "So what should we do to help make this place defensible?"

"I'd talk to Trudy first; she's sort of like everybody's mom, and if you get her on our side you'll be halfway to winning over the town. You could talk to Chet in the general store about getting us some better equipment, but money is the only language he speaks. And I think Easy Pete has some dynamite hidden somewhere."

"Alright, then. I'll look into it."

"It's real good of you to stick your neck out for us like this."

"I can't help it, as much as I'd like to. You all seem like decent folks, and you've done me a good turn already. Plus I like you, Sunny. I like you quite a bit."

Sunny grinned and gave Molly a peck on the cheek. "Talk to me after the gunfight, alright?"

* * *

It didn't take much to convince Trudy to lend a hand, nor Chet once Molly mentioned that raiders tended to be bad for business. While wandering through town trying to find Easy Pete—no easy task, given that she had no idea who Easy Pete was—she ran into Joe Cobb leaning against a derelict building, glaring at the Prospector Saloon.

"Hey, stranger," Molly said to him with her friendliest smile.

He glared back at her. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Thought we might have a chat, you and me."

"We got nothing to talk about. I heard that you offered to help Ringo, and I saw you up there getting that militia lined up; when my friends get here, you're gonna die along with the rest."

"That's what I thought you'd say. So you've had a bad run-in with the NCR, spent some time in the pen and on their slave crews?"

"Yeah. What the fuck do you care?"

"Do the names Amy and Charles Nguen mean anything to you?"

"No. Again, what the fuck do you care?"

"I had to make sure."

"Make sure of what?"

Joe Cobb didn't see the knife until it was already jutting from his throat.

* * *

"I heard you killed Joe Cobb," Sunny said when she and Molly saw each other again. "I hope you did it for a good reason, and not . . . for fun."

"It seemed a reasonable thing to do," Molly said. "We'll have one less Powder Ganger to deal with later."

"Murder isn't our way, Molly. I like to do things square."

"Do you really think Joe Cobb or any of his friends would deal squarely with you?"

"We ain't them. We're better than that."

Molly blinked. "Sunny, that's stu—er, that's a dangerous way to view the world. A bullet doesn't care who the better man is; a dead saint is just as dead as a dead sinner. Now Joe Cobb's dead, and with him out of the fight, maybe fewer of your friends will get shot."

"I guess you're right. So, how are things going?"

"I reckon we're as prepared as we're ever going to be."

Further down the road, one of the settlers who'd been watching the south road gesticulated wildly, then raised his gun and fired three shots into the air before running toward them.

"Well that's good news," Sunny said, jumping to her feet, "because the Powder Gangers are here to play."

* * *

Holding the hunting rifle to her shoulder and watching through its scope made Molly feel whole again. She watched seven strangers coming up the south road, rushing the town, and as she drew a bead on the first, the rifle became an extension of herself; the recoil, rapport, and acrid smell of cordite felt like a breath exhaled from her own lungs, and the attacker went down, a bloody hole in his chest. Two more had already dropped by the time Molly turned her bolt, and another two fell as she dropped her second target. The fight was over in under a minute; the Powder Gangers had barely managed to get off any shots of their own, and none of the townsfolk had been hurt. The air was filled with a deafening silence for a few minutes, until Ringo began to laugh.

"That was amazing," he said, clapping Molly on the shoulder. "We sure taught those Powder Gangers a lesson. Here." He handed her a bag that jangled with bottlecaps. "These are technically Crimson Caravan funds, but I'm sure they'll understand when I explain the situation."

As she headed for the saloon, Chet commented, "That was one hell of a fight. I just hope it doesn't bite us in the ass later on."

Molly shook her head. "Nah. Guys like that, you generally only have to whip them once. And even if more come, I don't think you'll have much trouble if they're as sorry as their friends."

Everyone congratulated her and offered to buy her drinks, but once inside the saloon Trudy announced a free round for all. Molly took a seat next to Sunny, downed a long draught of beer, and said, "I suppose I'll be going to New Vegas next. What's the best way to get there?"

"You'll want to head south," Trudy said, "around Nipton and then up through Novac like you're headed for Boulder City, then just follow the signs. I wouldn't go north from here; traders avoid that whole stretch of I-15 like it's radioactive, which it might be, and there's some nasty wildlife. But you're not thinking of leaving us already, are you?"

Molly carefully laid her arm across Sunny Smiles' shoulders. When Sunny leaned into the embrace, she grinned and said, "Not just yet. I'm thinking I'll stay one more night."


	3. Chapter 3

_III._

 **Author's Note:** Yeah, I know ED-E is given male pronouns in the game, but Jon from ManyATrueNerd used female pronouns for her, and Jon beat the whole game without healing and didn't die once, so I'm gonna defer to Jon on this one.

" _Stay with me through September; I know the summer didn't last  
_ _But there ain't nobody in New York City could need you half as bad  
_ _Stay with me through September; yeah, the nights are getting' cold  
_ _Old Man Winter's gonna be here soon and the cattle still ain't sold  
_ _Stay with me through September; yeah, I know there ain't much to do  
_ _And I've done my share of starving in the city; I was young once, too  
_ _And I can picture how you're living, in a tiny, four-floor flat  
_ _I guess there's times that a thousand acres and the Rocky Mountains can't compete with that . . ."  
_ _-Corb Lund_

Molly Nguen woke up late the next morning to Sunny poking her in the ribs. She groaned a series of expletives and rolled over. Sunny wrapped her arms around her, held her close, and said, "I thought you'd want to get an early start. Vegas is a long ways off."

Molly groaned again. "You don't range away from home much, do you?"

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Don't wake up before noon and don't start travelling until the shadows are long. Go by night if you can. We're in a desert, it's friggin hot out there. Shit."

"Never thought of that. I guess I don't range that far away from town most of the time."

"Walk from Oregon to Nevada and you'll learn a thing or two about a thing or two." She sat up. "May as well get up, I guess; I need to pack more water."

"Talk to Trudy." Sunny rolled over and sighed. "I'm gonna miss you, Molly."

"So come with me."

"What?"

"I'm not staying—I've got business—and it might be a few whiles before I can stop back by. Come with me, Sunny. You can learn new things and see the sights, we'll keep each other company. It gets powerful lonely out there."

Sunny was quiet for a good, long time. After a pace, she said, "My place is here. Travelling with you sounds like a good time, but these people need me."

"Can't argue with that, I guess. But, Sunny, you're a great friend, and last night was amazing, and I'd like it if you were more than my friend. I know I'm gonna miss you something awful."

"You don't have to go, Molly."

"I do, though. The guy who buffaloed me, I'm starting to remember what he looks like, and I see his face every time I close my eyes. I won't be able to live if I don't square with that. And I've been wanting to see New Vegas ever since I took this job; the northwest got hit pretty bad in the war, and I've never seen a city that's whole and alive. Didn't think there were any. But I'll miss you. I've got a big bedroll, and those nights can get pretty cold."

Sunny was silent for a long while. Finally, she said, "Molly, you're gonna die out there."

Molly nodded. "Yep. Reckon I might."

* * *

Hitting the trail, her heavy boots clopping on the cracked asphalt, her laden pack bouncing against her back, Molly Nguen felt at home again. She'd managed to waste enough time that the shadows were growing and she'd only have to endure a few more hours of direct light before the night drew on. Until then, she kept her hat pulled low on her head and her forearms wrapped, and kept her water within easy reach.

She'd walked all of one hundred meters when her sharp eyes caught a group of men in prison guards' uniforms grouped around a derelict mobile home. They hadn't spotted her, and she started to reach for her rifle when an idea occurred to her. Making sure it was loose across her pack and that her knife was ready in its sheath, she pulled off her facewrap and approached them, her mouth stretched into a wide, stupid smile.

They trained their guns on her when they spotted her, but made no move to attack. She waved to them and hollered, "Afternoon, strangers. Any news?"

They wasted no time; the lead man barked, "You coming from Goodsprings?"

Molly tried to remember what she knew of the area, and what route the man in Primm had suggested she take north. Shaking her head, she said, "Naw, I came from West Vegas, headed south roundabouts Redrock Canyon on account of what they've said about the 15. Never went through any Goodsprings."

A few of the raiders glared at her; she wiggled her hips and smiled at them.

"Well what the hell do you want?"

Molly did her best to look innocent. "I was hoping I might make me a trade. I'm short on .308 ammo and it's a long road."

The gang boss considered her for a moment, shrugged, and asked, "What have you got that we'd want?"

"Some food, some water, some tools, basic kit like that, a few caps. And say, aren't you the boys who busted out of the NCR lock-up?"

"Maybe we are. What's it to you, traveler?"

She grinned, a genuine grin, a predatory grin, and said, "Fuck NCR. I hope you took out a score of those goddamn pigs."

The gang boss returned her look, lowered his weapon, and gestured to a nearby ammo can, saying, "You can help yourself. You got a name?"

* * *

Molly filled her pockets and all the empty spaces in her pack with as much brass as she could, and the Powder Gangers gave her a spot of supper, and one gave her a bag of bottlecaps for a quick hump behind the trailer; after it all, there wasn't any daylight left to waste and she headed south feeling rather satisfied with herself. Though, as the moon rose and its light played over the clifftops, she couldn't help but think about Sunny Smiles.

It was a brisk and quiet walk to Primm, easy to spot with its roller coaster looming against the skyline, and she paused at seeing the NCR flag flying over a ramshackle encampment. She froze, backed up behind a broken highway divider, and surveyed things through the scope of her rifle. The one trooper on night watch had apparently not noticed her, appeared to be sitting in his booth reading a magazine by candlelight. She put her sights on the center of his chest, savored holding his life in her hands for a moment, then slung the rifle and approached. The trooper heard her footfalls, ran out of his booth, and leveled his service rifle at her, shouting, "Where the hell do you think you're going? Primm is off limits!"

"Recon I'm going to Primm," Molly said, meeting his eyes.

"I just said, Primm is off limits!"

"You planning to stop me, soldier? Because ten caps says I can close this gap before you can get a shot off."

The trooper lowered his rifle, shook his head, and said, "Whatever, it's your ass. Don't go blaming the Bear when the raiders hang you from the roller coaster."

Molly said nothing, but spun hard to the left, shouldered her rifle, seemingly aimed at the sky, and let off a round. A moment later someone screamed as a dark silhouette tumbled from the top of the coaster to land with a thud on the streets below. Molly grinned and walked past the checkpoint, her rifle held at low ready.

"Hey!" the trooper called after her, "Be careful! There are mines on the bridge!"

"Awesome," she called back, "free mines!"

* * *

There were raiders walking the streets, but they were easy enough to avoid in the darkness, being preoccupied with trying to find the source of the shot that killed their watchman. She found Johnson Nash's house right where she'd left it, though she tiptoed in to find it deserted save for a deactivated robot lying on Mr. Nash's store counter. It intrigued her. Making sure the door was locked and the building cleared, she looked it over. It was an eyebot, with all the disturbing implications that carried, and she hesitated at the consideration she could fix it, but curiosity got the better of her; she threw down her pack, dug around for her tools, and unbolted the eyebot's chassis. Its interior was in surprisingly good condition, given how worn the chassis was, and the only obvious problem was a missing connector in front of its fusion core, which was easy to bypass.

An arc of power shot through her screwdriver, up her arm and into her heart and brain, knocking her to the floor, and the eyebot beeped to life. It turned its monitor towards her, made a few emotive beeping noises, and she heard her Pip-Boy beep once in response. The robot canted its monitor, like a confused dog, and beeped again.

"H-hey there, little guy," Molly ventured. The eyebot beeped again, and the scars on the side of her head sent bolts of pain into her head, doubling her over, and she gasped, "I understood that . . . Why did I understand that?"

The eyebot beeped again, and Molly heard nothing in it but electronic noise, but somehow her mind attributed meaning to the beeps. The eyebot's name was ED-E, and it—she—was very happy to have been reactivated.

"Um . . . you're welcome? Who built you, anyways? You're not from the Enclave, are you?"

She didn't know.

"Where'd you come from?"

A place called Chicago, which Molly had never heard of.

"What can you do?"

She was skilled at making repairs, and was equipped with energy weapons.

Molly shrugged. "You could follow me, keep me company. Maybe we'll figure out where the hell you came from."

ED-E agreed.

"Just remember to keep quiet; there are bad dudes out there and I kinda murdered one of them."

Before heading back outside, Molly thought to check why her Pip-Boy had beeped at ED-E's activation. There was a new text communication, from a designator she didn't recognize, and when she opened it she saw a nonsensical string of numbers, which after a moment she realized were grid coordinates. Below the numbers were the words, "Courier Six? Ulysses."

"Oh, hell," she muttered as the blood drained from her face. "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck me."

ED-E beeped.

"I'm not perfect, sweetheart. I've . . . I've done some bad things."

* * *

Molly emerged back onto the street, keeping low and in the buildings' shadows, and was about to head out of town and continue south towards Nipton when she caught a bit of movement through a window of the big building across from the Nash residence. She crept around to the front, slid open the big double-doors, and crept inside.

Johnson Nash stood before her, pointing a pistol at her heart. He looked into her eyes, then over to ED-E hovering on her left, then back to Molly, and said, "You ain't no raider, kid. You look familiar, and that robot came from my place. Do I know you?"

Molly cocked an eyebrow. "Uh, I'm Molly, Mr. Nash. Molly Nguen."

"Not ringing any bells."

"I'm a courier with the Mojave Express."

"Well, I don't have any work right now, sorry to say."

She shook her head, reached into her pocket, and handed him her delivery order. "My package was stolen."

Nash looked over the order and said, "Yeah, I remember now. This job had 'strange' written all over it."

"What was strange about it?"

"Well, you weren't the only one. That cowboy robot had us hire five others."

At the mention of "cowboy robot," Molly felt a goose walk over her grave, but she nodded for Nash to continue.

"Supposed to be seven, but one of them—don't ask me his name, some bighorner farmer from a ways south of here—saw your name on the list and backed out. I asked him why, and he wouldn't tell me; he just said, 'Let "Courier Six" take the job, let the Mojave sort her out,' whatever that means. I hope a storm from the Divide comes through and . . . hey, kid, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Molly composed herself as best she could and stammered, "Y-yeah, yeah, I'm fine. My package, it, I was . . . I was headed towards Red Rock Canyon, had just made it north of Goodsprings, when three guys jumped me, took the package, and shot me. Two of them were Great Khans, and one was a slick greaseball in a checkered coat."

Nash scratched his head. "Yeah, the guy in the daisy suit rings a bell; they definitely passed through here. You should talk to Deputy Beagle, he's the law around here ever since the raiders moved in and killed the sheriff. I last saw him skulking around the Bison Steve Hotel, across the street."

* * *

Molly saw no raiders as she snuck across to the hotel and heard no movement when she put her ear to the door. She eased the door open. A shot whipped past her ear. She had no time to scold herself for her complacency; she shouldered her rifle and crouch-ran into the building, shooting at movement, only peripherally registering the deaths of the raiders who'd been waiting behind the desk. She moved on autopilot, the rifle becoming an extension of herself, and the hovering ED-E could barely keep up. More raiders waited in the darkened halls to the right; the shots went where she willed them to, the rifle's flash and tattoo becoming her exhaled breaths. At the end of the hall, she turned into a wide banquet room with five raiders; they were ready for her coming, having heard the shots and screams, but she was already acting and she moved like a cat, and they fell. Two more raiders ran out of a side room as she was heading toward it, and they fell with holes in their chests, and as she entered the room she had already turned the rifle's bolt and was about to perforate a third figure before she realized this one was on their knees, their hands bound.

"Well, howdy," said Deputy Beagle. "I'd shake your hand, but, well, as you can see, that might be difficult."

Molly, gasping her breath following the assault, slung her rifle, drew her knife, and asked, "Might you be Deputy Beagle?"

"That I am, stranger, and while I'm mighty grateful to you for helping me settle with those ruffians—"

"Not quite, bud. This building has a couple of floors and I've only assaulted the first."

"Yes, as I was saying, I'm mighty grateful, of course, but I'd prefer to make introductions in a less compromising position."

"Naturally."

Molly cut his bonds and said, "Just follow the dead folks to the front door and we'll meet up in front of the casino. I don't wanna sound like a bitch or nuthin, but you don't look like much of a fighter anyways."

"I'll defer to your expertise in that respect," he said, and took off faster than a deer. Chuckling as she followed, Molly decided that she liked Deputy Beagle immensely.

Outside, after looking around to ensure they were alone, the deputy was free enough with his information—of which he had frustratingly little, save that he had in fact seen the man in the checkered jacket and that man had in fact been heading south—and ended things with a request, that Primm needed a new sheriff, and that he wasn't qualified for that work.

"It needs to be someone brave, like you," he said, "but more of a homebody. You could talk those NCR guys into taking over the town—"

Molly snorted and spat on the ground. "Be faster to just burn the town down right now."

"Not a fan of our friends in the New California Republic, are you?"

"Those pigs can eat my ass with a spoon. I hope Kimball goddamn drowns in a fire. I hope a storm from the Divide blows through and—"

It was Beagle's turn to interrupt. "I'd heard about a guy incarcerated up at the NCR prison who had some experience as a sheriff, man name of Meyers. Personally, he's the one I'd go with."

Molly grinned like a fool at the news and agreed, "Yeah, that sounds a lot more my speed. Care to point the way?"

* * *

On the way out of town, a foul mood took over Molly's mind. She kicked rocks in front of her and grumbled while ED-E beeped.

"Goddamn Bear. The thing people won't remember, but I remember. Molly Goldman Nguen will always remember. I remember the war, I remember the no-knock raids, I remember my city on fire, I remember Mom and Dad . . ."

She stopped, turned, and suddenly grabbed the little eyebot with both hands.

"Damn me, but I remember the Divide."


End file.
